Slowly We Die. Emelie ScheppЧитать онлайн книгу.
Perspectives. She didn’t want to be part of anything like that. She decided she would leave the group as soon as she had a chance. But for now, she was across the street from home, and it could wait.
A yellow-and-green tram went by, and garbage swirled around in its wake. She put her cell phone back into her pocket, crossed the tram tracks and went into the courtyard between two apartment buildings. She stopped outside the entrance to her building and looked up at the dark windows of her family’s apartment. As usual, she felt anxious about coming home. Would it be yet another day of her mother’s pitiful crying, followed by prolonged silence?
She didn’t want her days to be like this.
Aida stood outside for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. She had dreamed of getting her own place. Many of her friends already had their own apartments—studios, mostly, with kitchenettes. But it was one thing to leave home by yourself, and something completely different to leave behind your little sister.
She went upstairs and put her key in the door, and was just about to turn it when she realized that the door was already unlocked. Her forehead wrinkled in concern as she stepped into the apartment.
Her little sister Sara’s backpack was still hanging in the hallway, as was her jacket. That meant Sara hadn’t gone to preschool today. As Aida hung up her jacket in the hallway, she heard a weak whimpering sound. She glanced toward the room she and Sara shared. Something about the sound and the closed door made her nervous.
Was he here?
Aida’s body tensed as she moved toward their bedroom. She noticed the key was in the outside lock. That was unusual. She had turned that key countless times—but always from inside the bedroom. This time, someone had locked it from the outside.
She swallowed, turned the key and opened the bedroom door.
The roller shade was pulled down and the smiling moon lamp above Sara’s bed was turned off. Aida could barely see inside.
“Sara?” she whispered into the darkness.
There was no answer, but the whimpering sound became more intense, so she stepped in and turned on the ceiling light.
In the bed, almost fully concealed by a down comforter, lay her little sister. Her hair was tousled, and she was looking at Aida with a glassy gaze. Her eyes radiated confusion more than the fear they had when they were forced to listen to the abuse going on in the next room. But her little body was trembling.
Something unusual had happened in their apartment. What had he done this time, that fucking idiot?
“Come here,” she said, reaching her arms out for her little sister. But Sara resisted.
“Calm down,” she said, attempting to put her arms around her sister’s small frame.
But Sara wrenched herself free from her older sister’s attempted embrace, creeping even farther under the comforter. She was still whimpering.
Aida turned her gaze back toward the doorway, and at that moment began to understand. She stood up and listened intently as she quietly left the room. Various scenarios raced through her head, each one worse than the one before as she approached the living room, where she found an unbelievably gruesome scene.
She stood paralyzed with horror at the sight of her mother tied to a chair, covered in blood, her head hanging limply, her hands severed and lying on the floor.
* * *
Philip Engström was jerked hastily awake by the alarm in the ambulance station.
He swung his legs out of the narrow bed and immediately saw on his handset that the call was high priority. He had ninety seconds to get himself and the ambulance driver into the rig and on the road.
It had been a stressful night with nine calls and hardly any sleep. It was just eight o’clock now, and the second half of his twenty-four-hour shift was just beginning.
When he got to the ambulance, he saw Sandra standing there, waiting.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
“Get in,” she said, climbing in behind the wheel.
Philip raked his hands through his hair, hopped in the rig and pulled the seat belt across his chest. “Where is Katarina?”
Sandra drove quickly out of the garage, noting the address of the apartment in Eneby listed at the top of the navigation screen. She turned on the sirens and blue flashing lights while Philip began reading the information from dispatch.
“A woman has lost consciousness. Bleeding heavily from her wrists. Both hands severed. Police on the way.”
“Her hands are severed?” Sandra asked.
“Yes,” Philip said.
“Suicide attempt? Accident? Does it say anything more?”
He shook his head.
They drove past the hospital parking area and out onto Gamla Övägen toward downtown. Philip saw the industrial district, the fences and barbed wire that encircled the buildings.
“To answer your question, Katarina is apparently still sick,” Sandra said.
“Strange. I talked to her just yesterday. She said that she would be back today.”
“Yeah, but you know, the symptoms of exhaustion are nothing to play around with. I don’t think she can handle the stress.”
“No, not everyone can,” he said.
Large clouds filled the sky, and a shadow lay over the road. The speedometer read 75 mph.
“My heart still pounds every time,” she said, “as if I’m scared I won’t be good enough, won’t be able to help, that my efforts won’t suffice.”
“You sound like a professor when you use words like ‘suffice,’” he said.
Sandra smiled. “Haven’t you ever felt like that?”
“No.” He raked his hand through his hair again.
“Not to change the subject,” he said, “but you haven’t seen a gold ring lying around anywhere at work, have you?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ve lost mine.”
“You’ve lost your wedding ring? Nice move.” She smiled.
“I already know it’s not, but thanks for the reminder.”
He rested his elbow on the door and looked out through the windshield. He felt the vehicle swaying and closed his eyes for a second.
“You should stop taking those meds,” she said.
“What the hell would I take meds for?” he mumbled.
“I don’t know...”
“Do you think that I need meds?”
“No, but sometimes you slur your speech,” Sandra said. “It’s obvious you’re on something.”
“I’m just tired. Can’t a person just be tired?”
She didn’t answer. Or maybe she did; Philip didn’t know. He was already in the borderland between dreams and reality.
* * *
She felt sick as she pulled her jacket over her shoulders. Jana Berzelius stood in her walk-in closet with her eyes on the mirror. The bedroom door was locked. She wasn’t scared, that wasn’t the issue. She wanted to be at peace with her thoughts. Her mother had just died. And now this. She had thought all night about the situation, about Danilo. About him staying in her apartment.
The police hadn’t yet issued a description to the general public, which gave her some amount of relief. Just think what would happen if someone had seen him near her apartment and recognized him?
During